The night bus and Istanbul again

A quıet boy, about eleven, not small not bıg, sat next to me on the nıght bus. Hıs mother, a stylısh woman ın whıte cotton jacket and pants, sat across the aısle wıth hıs younger sıster. The boy tuned the small televısıon ın the back of the seat in front of him to the bus´s dash camera and watched the people mıllıng about ın the terminal lott; later he watched the dark road ahead as we drove through the nıght.

I actually slept ın largish bits, though I couldn`t put my seat back. The young woman behınd me had taken up a sleepıng posıtıon wıth her knees jammed agaınst the back of my seat, and when I trıed to gently reclıne she dıd not budge but actually pushed back. She woke brıefly at our fırst stop but only to dırect some angry words at the old man sıttıng next to her. He responded gently, wıthout acrımony, but she provıded enough for the two of them, why I don`t know.

The fırst stop came at one ın the mornıng, and whıle a few people slept on, most stumbled off the bus ın the garısh lıght of the open termınal and shops. After vısıts to the WC, the passengers stood smokıng and eatıng snacks, and a boy passed me wıth a small pıllow he'd bought from one of the shops. I ate an ıce cream bar, and ıt tasted good, I think, but I hardly remember ıt now. When I got off the bus the aır was cold and the ground wet, and I thought ıt had raıned. But no, attendants wash down the buses at each of these stops, makıng profuse use of water and suds. I stood near my bus wıth my ıce cream, watching it, the bus that is; they all look alıke and I wanted to make suıre to get back on the rıght one.

Thıs bus, lıke the one to Fethıye a month ago, had an attendant as well as a drıver. The attendant offered water perıodıcally, and twıce came along wıth a small snack and drınk cart. He was a handsome young man, ın unıform of navy blue pants, pale blue shırt and tıe, but wıth poınty black shoes. Hıs haır was well-producted, spıked up and back and forward, gıvıng hım a streamlıned and roosterısh look, whıch he wore well.

The last twenty mıles to the Istanbul otogar took two hours, what wıth a few preliminary stops and barely movıng traffıc. From the otogar I took the Metro down ınto Sultanahmet, then walked to a tram whıch took me across the Golden Horn: I got off at the foot of Beyoglu and walked up a steep narrow street to my hoped-for hostel. When I had left Istanbul back ın late May, my progress had been much less smooth and more fraught. But now I know a lıttle bıt, at least enough to get around, most of the tıme. On the Metro someone asked me for dırectıons and I was able to gıve them.

World House Hostel did indeed take me in, though I had to settle for the eight-bed dorm as the fourteen-bed dorm (the cheapest) was full. The man who helped me was big city Turkish: he was wearing shorts. He told me it'd be an hour before I could get into the room.

I walked down the street to a store and bought a big bottle of water and a loaf of bread, then came back and sat on the hostel's patio and ate lunch and read the opening chapter of Trollope's Barchester Towers, which I've read before but took from Sabah Pension to make sure I wouldn't be without something to read. It's a good novel but Mr. Slope and Mrs Proudie annoy me far too much to put up with the whole six hundred pages of them again. The hostel's patrons sat about in the common area; they were all young, and accomplished in the backpacking youth skill of doing nothing--smoking, chatting in a desultory fashion, maybe going so far as to play cards or backgammon, but mostly just sitting and staring.

I don't know why I had to wait the hour (I was anxious to get out into the city); all they did was change a sheet and pillow case on one of the four bunkbeds. But I finally claimed that bed by spreading some of my stuff on it before heading out the door.

I walked up the narrow cobblestoned street, passing a number of musical instrument shops (throughout Istanbul merchants of a kind tend to band together: later I'd pass through a neighborhood of natutical antique stores). Soon my lane emptied out on to the wide Istiklal Caddesi, the city's most happening street.

Istiklal is lined with tall buildings, with apartments on the upper floors, restaurants and expensive clothing stores, doner and ice cream counters, bookstores and sweets shops at street level. The street is restricted to foot traffic, but taxis and motorbikes charge across at the narrow cross streets, giving no quarter. Down these alleys, dropping downhill on either side, are more restaurants and tea shops and bars, and smaller, less upscale shops. Early in the afternoon Istiklal was thronged with people, some tourists but mostly locals, everyone ambling along, the crowd thickest in the strip of shade on one side. The flow clotted about tiny stands selling hot chestnuts, mussels, simit (bread rings), watches and belts, sunglasses, shoe shines. A few street performers were out, some of them homeless types with marginal skills, but a magician too, and three fusion Indians playing Peruvian flutes but wearing the feathered headdresses and buckskins of the Great Plains: around them a large crowd had gathered.

I stopped often to watch people, to look for English-language works in bookstores, to admire the food in the windows (lots of cafeteria-style restaurants). Eventually the street came to an end at Taksim Square, a key landmark in the city though not aesthetically striking: an open space with an Ataturk statue and lots of buses.

I spent the hours of the afternoon and evening walking around Beyoglu and Sultanahmet, wanting to see more and more though knowing I could see hardly any of the vast city in so short a time....

I had a plan of sorts, which was to eat as often as I could manage. Late in the afternoon a young man in livery opened the door of Haci Abdullah Restaurant, on one of the side streets off Istiklal. Apparently the restaurant has been in operation since the late nineteenth century, offering traditional Turkish dishes. A bit fancy but I didn't see any reason to take home any of the Turkish lira I had left. No one else was in the restaurant, which made me a little self-conscious with the waiter, a well-dressed older man; and then I didn't order much, which disappointed him. I ate the imam bayildi, or stuffed eggplant, a cold dish and a lovely one (the stuffing included cooked tomato and rice and ... I really don't know what else, but more stuff).

Before I left Haci Abdullah I thought I'd take advantage of the free bathroom (a rarity in Istanbul). It proved not only the cleanest bathroom in Turkey but one with a feature completely new to my experience. The toilet seat was wrapped in plastic (no messing with trying to get one of those tissue covers to stay put). I didn't see how this was really all that much of an advantage, though, since it couldn't be removed; wouldn't you just sit on the same plastic as the last person? But when I pushed a button at the head of the seat the magic happened: the plastic slid around the seat, the old section disappearing into the wall. "Wow,'" I said out loud.

But that wasn't all. Every bathroom in Turkey has a small trashcan for toilet paper. You are never supposed to put toliet paper in a toilet (later at the hostel I saw that someone had done just that, and since by now I'm well trained, I thought, "bad form"). Most of these plastic receptacles have swinging door lids; some have the little footstep at the bottom for opening the lid. But at Haci Abdullah the small chrome trashcan had a motion detector: pass your hand over the top and the lid opened with a mechanical whir. No need to touch or step on anything (and the stepping can be awkward when one is sitting down and the trashcan is beside the toilet or off under the sink). Fancy-ness.

Back outside I walked off the steep hill of Beyoglu, down to the Bosphorous, over to Galata Bridge, across and past all the anglers catching nothing as on my previous visit, sweating freely all along the way, into and through the Spice Bazaar and then up another steep hill into the Great Bazaar, where eventually I found a keyring for Alix. Then I walked back to Beyoglu to another restaurant, one I had picked out earlier.

The Afacan was one of the cafeteria restaurants on Istiklal, and the one I'd decided had the prettiest food, in particular a big silver tray full of large hunks of lamb. I went inside and ordered the lamb, and one of the cooks put it on a white plate with a big dollop of rice, and that cost 22 lira, which surprised me but I sat down and ate it and thought, ok, no problem with the 22. Beautiful, even after I cut into the cooked half tomato on the side and squirted oily tomato juice from neck to belly button down the front of my shirt (really, an astonishing amount for just a small bit of pressure with a knife). The meat reminded me of the lechazos in Spain, though this lamb was obviously older than those babies. It was almost more than I could eat; almost.

Next I went to a patisserie where I had earlier sampled the baclava. When I had asked for one piece the man behind the counter had been incredulous. "Bir [one]?" he said, and I nodded and he asked again. Yes, I said firmly, intent on not showing weakness. One, please. When I returned I wanted to say, see, I have come back for more. I asked for six, to bring home to Naomi.

Before I returned to the hotel I stopped at a produce stand to get carrots and cucumber and apricots for the next day; at a nearby store I bought more water and bread. The third floor room at the hostel was hot, and while earlier in the day there had been a floor fan it was gone for some reason. I organized my bag, took a shower, went downstairs and trolled through the channels on the television since no one else was watching and I thought maybe I could find something better than MTV Turkey, but after watching a few minutes of the show Chuck I discovered I could not.

I went to my room and turned off the light and lay down. Four of the other seven beds would be occupied, but at the moment no one else was present (the young people don't turn in early). The room was almost unbearably hot and stuffy; every once in a while a weak puff of air would come in the open window, along the with the calls of nearby seagulls (and later the loud call to prayers from the mosque next door), but the effect of such respite was mostly to emphasize the discomfort.... Still, I slept some. Two young Australian women came in about one in the morning and turned on the two ceiling fans I had somehow not noticed. Oh, I thought, that's much better. On my last night I certainly felt a more competent traveler in Turkey than I had more than six weeks previous, but apparently I still had room for improvement.